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In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After the postcard craze had passed, Frella returned to Herma’s cottage several times to study the camphor chest. Every day for a week, Herma let her into the living room, where she would sit quietly in front of the chest, sometimes for hours. The wood’s glossy surface would catch the light, warm and rich, like polished honey. Frella would trace the strange curves of the mysterious engravings with her fingers, feeling the subtle dips and rises beneath her touch. The patterns felt ancient, worn smooth in places, yet sharp along certain edges, as if holding onto secrets just out of reach.
Then, as she lifted the heavy lid, a soft creak would break the silence, the hinges groaning as if they hadn’t moved in ages. A burst of cool, earthy fragrance would immediately rise, filling the air with camphor’s sharp, clean scent, mingled with faint hints of aged cedar and spice.
It didn’t take long for Frella to notice that each time she opened the chest, she would find a new object among the old papers and postcards. It was never the same. Once, it was an old brass spyglass; another time, it might be an ornate compass with seven directions marked. Yet another day, she found a teddy bear. By some odd coincidence, each item always seemed to be something she needed in her life at that particular moment.
When Eris informed them that Malove was most likely under a powerful spell, Frella found the mirror. An inscription carved clumsily on its back read, “This Mystic Mirror belongs to Seraphina.” The mirror’s metal was cold, tarnished, and in need of a good polish. Jeezel would have surely raved about the intricate vines of silver and gold, twisting in delicate patterns that seemed to shift with the viewer’s perspective. But what captivated Frella most was the glass itself. It held a faint opalescent sheen, swirling with hints of colors, like a rainbow caught in crystal.
The first time Frella looked into it, she saw, behind her own reflection, an elderly woman with silver hair handing the mirror down to a little girl who looked just like Frella had as a child. The clothes were peculiar, and the room they stood in looked as if it belonged in a fantasy movie. Then the little girl began carefully carving something on the back of the mirror with what looked like a golden chisel. When she finally turned the mirror and looked into it, her reflection replaced Frella’s. She said something, but there was no sound. Frella had the distinct impression that the girl’s lips had formed the words, “We are the same. It’s yours now; you’ll need it soon.” Then she vanished, and Frella’s own reflection reappeared.
Still filled with awe at what just happened, Frella wondered if Seraphina was a long lost ancestor. “Was that chest also yours, Seraphina?” she asked in a whisper to the ghosts of the past.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“If you’re planning on having a baby, you’d better use those droplets fast. That silvery glow? It’s already decaying,” said Jeezel, meticulously selecting twelve golden pheasant feathers from the pile in front of her. She inspected each one carefully, choosing only the finest, most vibrant feathers, free from even the slightest flaw.
Truella snorted. “I’m well aware of the effects of time on matter,” she replied, shifting back in her swivel chair. “I am, after all, an experienced amateur archaeologist. Take a look at this.” She held her hand up closer to the camera, fingers spread.
“I’m not sure what your dirty fingernails are supposed to prove,” said Jeezel, arranging her selected feathers into a fan shape. “That they’re overdue for a manicure? Natural decay has nothing to do with time travel side effects, as you’d know if you watched my YouTube series on the subject.”
“We know all about your videos,” said Eris quickly, stepping in before Jeezel could launch into one of her infamous lectures on the dangers of time travel as seen by her Gran, Linda Pol. “I’m sure those droplets can still be useful in our spell. Cromwell had to navigate treacherous political waters with an impeccable grasp of strategy, manipulation, and the darker facets of power. Those droplets could act as a metaphysical catalyst, adding depth and purpose to the spell.”
“Exactly,” said Truella, tilting her chin up proudly. “A proactive hunch on my part.”
“I get the metaphysical catalyst bit,” said Frella, “but won’t those darker facets blow up in our faces? I mean, wasn’t Cromwell a master of secrets and deception? In the rudest way possible, if you ask me.”
“He could be gentle, too,” Truella murmured, blushing slightly.
“And that’s not even mentioning the spell’s potential to tap into the collective memory of his era,” added Jeezel. “And ‘rude’ isn’t how I’d describe his atrocities and ruthlessness. I covered that in detail in the video series…”
“We know,” Eris cut in. “That’s why we need to craft this spell with precision and include safeguards. Are the fans ready?”
“All set,” said Jeezel, her eyes sparkling with pride as she held up the four finished fans. “One for each of us, crafted with care and magic. They’ll clear the space, sweep away falsehoods, and purge any misleading energies. With these, only pure, unfiltered truth will emerge.”
“I’ll bring the Mystic Mirror I found in that old camphor chest,” said Frella. “Its surface shimmers and reflects the hidden truth of the soul.”
“And I have my unusual but eminently practical container—containing Cromwell’s droplets,” Truella chimed in, holding it up.
“Perfect. Then it’s settled. I’ll send Malove a meeting invitation for tonight,” said Eris, leaning in with a knowing smile. “You all know the place.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.
She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.
The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.
Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.
As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.
Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.
Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.
“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:
“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.
As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.
Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.
“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”
The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.
The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.
Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.
As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.
“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”
Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella woke with a start. The sun peeked through the curtains of her cottage, softly lighting her room. She lay there quietly trying to hang on to the dream: the bustling fair, the strange cloak-wearing girl with the black cat who said her name was —well she couldn’t remember now—, and even Cedric had made an appearance! Now he was infiltrating her dreams as well! She may need to do a spell for that. As the fog of sleep lifted, the vividness of the dream lingered at the edges of her consciousness and she played it over a few times, wondering what the message was. The fair was months ago, funny that it was coming up in her dreams now.
Her alarm buzzed on the bedside table and a warm tone chimed: “Good morning, Frella. The time is 6:45 a.m. Today’s forecast is mild with a chance of light rain in the morning. Would you like to review today’s tasks?”
Frella snorted and waved her hand in the air, silencing the digital assistant with a flicker of magic. It was far too early for that nonsense. The alarm faded into a soothing melody and the device shifted to Dream Journal mode: “It looks as though you had a vivid dream. Would you like my help to record it while it’s still fresh?”
Ignoring the prompt, Frella sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet made soft taps on the wooden floor as she walked over to the window. She pulled apart the curtains and opened the window, letting the cool morning air fill the room. Birds called in the distance, and she smiled as she leaned on the windowsill and let the fresh breeze stroke her face.
As she turned away from the window, her eyes fell on the postcard which had arrived in the mail yesterday, still sitting on her dressing table. The edges were slightly worn as if it had travelled a very long way to reach her and the spindly writing was indecipherable even with the help of a decrypting spell. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was somehow connected with her dream. She picked it up and studied it again; did that signature read Arona? Wasn’t that the name of the girl in the dream!
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Youlgreave
The Frost Family and The Big Snow
The Youlgreave parish registers are said to be the most complete and interesting in the country. Starting in 1558, they are still largely intact today.
“The future historian of this parish will find a vast stock of material ready to hand, and if such a work was ever accomplished it would once more be seen how the history of even a remote village is but the history of the nation in little; how national victories were announced on the church bells, and national disasters by the proclamation of a form of prayer…”
J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.
Although the Youlgreave parish registers are available online on microfilm, just the baptisms, marriages and burials are provided on the genealogy websites. However, I found some excerpts from the churchwardens accounts in a couple of old books, The Reliquary 1864, and Notes on Derbyshire Churches 1877.
Hannah Keeling, my 4x great grandmother, was born in Youlgreave, Derbyshire, in 1767. In 1791 she married Edward Lees of Hartington, Derbyshire, a village seven and a half miles south west of Youlgreave. Edward and Hannah’s daughter Sarah Lees, born in Hartington in 1808, married Francis Featherstone in 1835. The Featherstone’s were farmers. Their daughter Emma Featherstone married John Marshall from Elton. Elton is just three miles from Youlgreave, and there are a great many Marshall’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, some no doubt distantly related to ours.
Hannah Keeling’s parents were John Keeling 1734-1823, and Ellen Frost 1739-1805, both of Youlgreave.
On the burial entry in the parish registers in Youlgreave in 1823, John Keeling was 88 years old when he died, and was the “late parish clerk”, indicating that my 5x great grandfather played a part in compiling the “best parish registers in the country”. In 1762 John’s father in law John Frost died intestate, and John Keeling, cordwainer, co signed the documents with his mother in law Ann. John Keeling was a shoe maker and a parish clerk.
John Keeling’s father was Thomas Keeling, baptised on the 9th of March 1709 in Youlgreave and his parents were John Keeling and Ann Ashmore. John and Ann were married on the 6th April 1708. Some of the transcriptions have Thomas baptised in March 1708, which would be a month before his parents married. However, this was before the Julian calendar was replaced by the Gregorian calendar, and prior to 1752 the new year started on the 25th of March, therefore the 9th of March 1708 was eleven months after the 6th April 1708.
Thomas Keeling married Dorothy, which we know from the baptism of John Keeling in 1734, but I have not been able to find their marriage recorded. Until I can find my 6x great grandmother Dorothy’s maiden name, I am unable to trace her family further back.
Unfortunately I haven’t found a baptism for Thomas’s father John Keeling, despite that there are Keelings in the Youlgrave registers in the early 1600s, possibly it is one of the few illegible entries in these registers.
The Frosts of Youlgreave
Ellen Frost’s father was John Frost, born in Youlgreave in 1707. John married Ann Staley of Elton in 1733 in Youlgreave.
(Note that this part of the family tree is the Marshall side, but we also have Staley’s in Elton on the Warren side. Our branch of the Elton Staley’s moved to Stapenhill in the mid 1700s. Robert Staley, born 1711 in Elton, died in Stapenhill in 1795. There are many Staley’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, going back to the late 1500s.)
John Frost (my 6x great grandfather), miner, died intestate in 1762 in Youlgreave. Miner in this case no doubt means a lead miner, mining his own land (as John Marshall’s father John was in Elton. On the 1851 census John Marshall senior was mining 9 acres). Ann Frost, as the widow and relict of the said deceased John Frost, claimed the right of administration of his estate. Ann Frost (nee Staley) signed her own name, somewhat unusual for a woman to be able to write in 1762, as well as her son in law John Keeling.
John’s parents were David Frost and Ann. David was baptised in 1665 in Youlgreave. Once again, I have not found a marriage for David and Ann so I am unable to continue further back with her family. Marriages were often held in the parish of the bride, and perhaps those neighbouring parish records from the 1600s haven’t survived.
David’s parents were William Frost and Ellen (or Ellin, or Helen, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it). Once again, their marriage hasn’t been found, but was probably in a neighbouring parish.
William Frost’s wife Ellen, my 8x great grandmother, died in Youlgreave in 1713. In her will she left her daughter Catherine £20. Catherine was born in 1665 and was apparently unmarried at the age of 48 in 1713. She named her son Isaac Frost (born in 1662) executor, and left him the remainder of her “goods, chattels and cattle”.
William Frost was baptised in Youlgreave in 1627, his parents were William Frost and Anne.
William Frost senior, husbandman, was probably born circa 1600, and died intestate in 1648 in Middleton, Youlgreave. His widow Anna was named in the document. On the compilation of the inventory of his goods, Thomas Garratt, Will Melland and A Kidiard are named.(Husbandman: The old word for a farmer below the rank of yeoman. A husbandman usually held his land by copyhold or leasehold tenure and may be regarded as the ‘average farmer in his locality’. The words ‘yeoman’ and ‘husbandman’ were gradually replaced in the later 18th and 19th centuries by ‘farmer’.)
Unable to find a baptism for William Frost born circa 1600, I read through all the pages of the Youlgreave parish registers from 1558 to 1610. Despite the good condition of these registers, there are a number of illegible entries. There were three Frost families baptising children during this timeframe and one of these is likely to be Willliam’s.
Baptisms:
1581 Eliz Frost, father Michael.
1582 Francis f Michael. (must have died in infancy)
1582 Margaret f William.
1585 Francis f Michael.
1586 John f Nicholas.
1588 Barbara f Michael.
1590 Francis f Nicholas.
1591 Joane f Michael.
1594 John f Michael.
1598 George f Michael.
1600 Fredericke (female!) f William.Marriages in Youlgreave which could be William’s parents:
1579 Michael Frost Eliz Staley
1587 Edward Frost Katherine Hall
1600 Nicholas Frost Katherine Hardy.
1606 John Frost Eliz Hanson.Michael Frost of Youlgreave is mentioned on the Derbyshire Muster Rolls in 1585.
(Muster records: 1522-1649. The militia muster rolls listed all those liable for military service.)
Frideswide:
A burial is recorded in 1584 for Frideswide Frost (female) father Michael. As the father is named, this indicates that Frideswide was a child.
(Frithuswith, commonly Frideswide c. 650 – 19 October 727), was an English princess and abbess. She is credited as the foundress of a monastery later incorporated into Christ Church, Oxford. She was the daughter of a sub-king of a Merica named Dida of Eynsham whose lands occupied western Oxfordshire and the upper reaches of the River Thames.)
An unusual name, and certainly very different from the usual names of the Frost siblings. As I did not find a baptism for her, I wondered if perhaps she died too soon for a baptism and was given a saints name, in the hope that it would help in the afterlife, given the beliefs of the times. Or perhaps it wasn’t an unusual name at the time in Youlgreave. A Fridesweda Gilbert was buried in Youlgreave in 1604, the spinster daughter of Francis Gilbert. There is a small brass effigy in the church, underneath is written “Frideswide Gilbert to the grave, Hath resigned her earthly part…”
J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.
King James
A parish register entry in 1603:
“1603 King James of Skottland was proclaimed kinge of England, France and Ireland at Bakewell upon Monday being the 29th of March 1603.” (March 1603 would be 1604, because of the Julian calendar in use at the time.)
The Big Snow
“This year 1614/5 January 16th began the greatest snow whichever fell uppon the earth within man’s memorye. It covered the earth fyve quarters deep uppon the playne. And for heaps or drifts of snow, they were very deep; so that passengers both horse or foot passed over yates, hedges and walles. ….The spring was so cold and so late that much cattel was in very great danger and some died….”
From the Youlgreave parish registers.
Our ancestor William Frost born circa 1600 would have been a teenager during the big snow.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Shivering, Truella pulled the thin blanket over her head. Colder than a witches tit here, colder in summer than winter at home! It was no good, she may as well get up and go for a walk to try and warm up. Poking her head outside Truella gasped and coughed at the chill air. Shapes were becoming discernible in the dim pre dawn light, the other pods, the hedgerow, a couple of looming trees. Truella rummaged through her bag, hoping to find warm clothes yet knowing she hadn’t packed anything warm enough. Sighing, her teeth chattering, she pulled on everything she had in layers and pulled the blanket off the bed to use as a cape. With a towel over her head for extra warmth, she ventured out into the Irish morning.
The grass was sodden with dew and Truella’s feet were wet through and icy. Bracing her shoulders with determination, she forged ahead towards a gate leading into the next field. She struggled for a few minutes with the baler twine holding the gate closed, numb fingers refusing to cooperate. Cows watched her curiously, slowly munching. One lifted her tail and dropped a steaming splat on the grass, chewing continuously. I don’t think I could eat and do that at the same time.
Heading off across the field which sloped gently upwards, Treulla picked up her pace, keeping her eyes down to avoid the cow pats. By the time she reached the oak tree along the top hedge, the sun started to make an appearance over the hill. Warmer from the exercise, she gazed over the countryside. How beautiful it was with the mist in the valleys, and everything so green.
If only it was warmer!
“Are you cold then, is that why you’re decked out like that? From a distance I thought I was seeing a ghost in a cloak and head shawl!” The woman smiled at Truella from the other side of the hedgerow. “Sorry, did I startle you? You’ll get your feet soaked walking in that wet grass, climb over that stile over there, the lane here’s better for a morning walk.”
It sounded like good advice and the woman seemed pleasant enough. “Are you here for the games too?” Truella asked, readjusting the blanket and towel after navigating the stile.
“Yes, I am. I’m retired, you see,” the woman said with a wide grin. “It’s a wonderful thing, not that you’d know, you’re much to young.”
“That must be nice,” Truella replied politely. “I sometimes wish I was retired.”
“Oh, my dear! It’s wonderful! I haven’t had a job for years, but it’s the strangest thing, now that I’ve officially retired, there’s a marvellous feeling of freedom. I don’t have to do anything. Well, I didn’t have to do anything before I retired but one always feels one should keep busy, do productive things, be seen to be doing some kind of work to justify ones existance. Have you seen the old priory?”
“No, only just got here yesterday.”
“You’ll love it, it’s up this path here, follow me. But now I’ve retired,” the woman continued, “I get up in the morning with a sense of liberation. I can do as little as I want ~ funny thing is that I’ve actually been doing more, but there’s no feeling of obligation, no things to cross off a list. All I’m expected to do as a retired person is tick along, trying not to be much of a bother for as long as I can.”
“I wish I was retired!” exclaimed Truella with feeling. “I wish I didn’t have to do the cow goddess stall, it’ll be such a bind having to stand there all evening.” She explained about the coven and the stalls, and the depressing productivity goals.
“But why not get someone else to do the stall for you?”
“It’s such short notice and I don’t know anyone here. It’s an idea though, maybe someone will turn up.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Why has Frella gone so soon?” asked Truella, when the beastly morality prayers were finished. “She was supposed to accompany us down the cellars tonight. I tell you what,” Truella rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, “This has been the longest day I’ve ever known. And it’s not over yet. Maybe we should leave the exploration of the cellars until tomorrow night.”
“Suits me,” said Zeezel, “I didn’t want to go down there anyway. The thought of going down there would ruin my evening, and I’ve got a gorgeous little cocktail dress picked out for tonight.”
“Jeezel, ” Eris said warningly, “We’re here on business.”
“Oh, lighten up, Eris! None of us even knows what we’re really here for! One minute it’s a boring merger or even a takeover, the next minute it’s all cloak and dagger mystery, then it’s a morality play, what’s it gonna be next?”
“A Barbara Cartland novel? Or 50 shades of undertakers?” Eris said with scowl.
“You don’t want to go down the cellar either, do you, Eris?” Truella asked, knowing the answer. “Never mind. You go and say some more prayers with Audrey. Jez, enjoy your evening to the hilt,” Truella wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll go on my own.”
The others looked at her open mouthed. “You can’t be serious!”
“She isn’t going on her own,” Eric said darkly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Truella pretended innocence. Of course she wasn’t going on her own. Rufus would go with her, and she even had an idea to invite Sassafras and Sandra. “Oh, alright then, I won’t go,” she lied. ” I’ll wait for you and we’ll go tomorrow night. But only if Frella comes back so she can come with us.”
Eris wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what Truella was planning. She had to rein Truella in, but how? Suddenly, inspiration struck.
“We’d better go and get ready for dinner,” Eris said, “See you all later in the dining hall.” And with that she stalked out of the room.
As soon as she was out of the door, Eris sprinted up the hallway. She had to get to him before Truella got there. Crashing into Brother Bartolo as she careered round a corner, she apologised hurriedly and asked if he knew where Rufus was. Bartolo informed her that he’d seen Rufus by the fountain. Eris resisted the temptation to remark snidely about him needing to cool down.
He was still there when Eris reached the courtyard, sitting on the side of the water feature, trailing his hand in the water and looking gloweringly pensive. Eris took a deep breath.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked pleasantly, sitting down beside him. “We’re so grateful to you guys for coming to help us out, it’s all quite a lot for us to take in, you know?” Eris smiled disarmingly. “We’d feel so much better if Frella was here with us. We did manage to get her here, but something went wrong and she didn’t stay as long as we hoped she would. She’s on a mission in Ireland, and couldn’t come over, but Sister Audrey kindly offered to let Frella posess her for 24 hours, and then I don’t know what happened but Frella was called back abruptly to her own body.” Eris knew she was garbling semi incoherently, which was most unlike her normally, but she thought this approach would appeal. Rufus seemed to be the type to be a sucker for a damsel in distress. “If only someone else would offer to let Frella possess his body for 24 hours so that she can come and join us…”
Eris’s little spell must have worked a treat, as Rufus promptly agreed. “I can help you with this. I offer my body for Frella to possess, if you think it will assist you.”
Eris beamed at him. “What a charming gentleman you are!” she gushed, surprisingly both of them as she leaned forward and impulsively kissed his cheek. “I must go,” she said. Horrified, her face crimson, she fled back inside the cloisters.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella opened her eyes. She felt rather woozy and very peculiar and it took her a moment to work out that she was sitting on the camphor chest in Herma’s shed with Herma and that awful Cedric Spellbind looming over her, their faces close and large. Too close. She looked from one anxious expression to the other.
“And what the devil is he doing here?” She nodded towards Cedric.
Cedric straightened himself. “I am here on official business,” he said stiffly. “Investigating this AirBnB for potential Witch Violations. And lucky I turned up when I did because you gave Mrs McCarthy here quite a turn with the way you were carrying on.”
Herma shook her head crossly.” Violations my foot. I told you lot last time your people came sniffing around, there’s none of that carry on here.”
“Why have I got salt all over me?” asked Frella.
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Now THIS, THIS is what I am talking about. SHE,” he pointed at Herma, “threw salt all over you to break the evil spell she said.”
“What nonsense!” said Herma, her face colouring. “But you had gone all odd, sort of not-here like and I couldn’t get any sense out of you.” She considered her hands for a few moments and then raised her head and beamed at Frella. “Why don’t I go and make you a nice cup of tea?” With that, she scurried off.
“Well, you’ve done what you came for. You can go now,” said Frella glaring at Cedric. She stood up and turned pointedly away from him, wondered how much he had seen and hoping she didn’t fall over. She silently cursed the other witches for their crazy shenanigans and desperately hoped that Herma would not get in trouble with the Authorities.
Cedric’s thoughts had taken quite another turn, mostly something about how beautiful the Witch was when she was angry. “Frigella,” he said.
She swung around. “It’s FRELLA,” she hissed.
“Frella …. “ Now it was Cedric’s turn to colour and he looked at the ground, so many thoughts jumbling through his head and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.
“Damn it Man! Spit it out, will you!”
“I just want to say that I know what you are.”
“And what am I exactly?”
Cedric met her gaze. “I know you’re a Witch and I’m not going to turn you in.” He shrugged. “I can’t.”
“And why can’t you, then? Something wrong with you, is there?”
Cedric’s hand reached under his shirt. “Look,” he said. He was holding a small round device. “It’s a listening device. We are supposed to wear them whenever we have a suspected Witch Violation or Interaction.” He threw the device to the ground where it bounced a couple of times. Then—rather dramatically in Frella’s opinion—he stomped on it.
Frella giggled. She couldn’t help herself
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The door knob of Truella’s bedroom turned, and then rattled. Sated and sleepy, she ignored it. Then an insistant rapping of knuckles sounded. Rufus looked at the door, and back to Truella.
“Ignore it, it’s probably the maid,” she said. “But what a time to come, at siesta time.”
The knocking got louder and a voice hissed through the keyhole, “Let me in! Open the bloody door, FFS!”
Frella! What was she doing here? Truella pulled the sheet around her and padded over to the door and unlocked it.
“About time!” she started to say, opening the door, and then leapt back in astonishment to see Sister Audrey standing there glaring.
Audrey pushed past her, slamming the door behind her and locking it. “Listen, this is the plan. Oh don’t look so baffled, it’s me, Frella. Audrey offered to let me possess her for 24 hours, it was the quickest way to get here. Now listen, this is what we’re going to do.” Audrey/Frella launched into an outline of the plans for exploring the cellars later that night. She had turned to face Truella at the door, and hadn’t noticed Rufus. Quickly, he slid off the bed and hid underneath it.
When Audrey/Frella had finished, she asked “Got any weed? I could do with a quick puff.” Truella replied affirmatively. “Oh and what have we here, what is that mans leather coat doing on your floor? You absolute tart, Truella. You’ve only been here since this morning and you’re at it already!”
This was too much for Rufus, who crawled out from under the bed. “Hold your tongue, woman!” he admonished, while reaching for his shorts. “And I heard all that,” he added. “And if you’re going down there, I’m coming with you.”
Truella looked at Audrey/Frella helplessly.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” snapped Audrey/Frella.
“I didn’t tell him, you did,” Truella shot back, “You’re the one who barged in here spilling the beans!”
“Well, he may be useful I suppose,” Audrey/Frella said, and stalked out, muttering tart under her breath. Why oh why, did she agree to do this?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Wait! Look at that one up there!” Truella grabbed Rufus’s arm. “That cloth hanging right up there by the rafters, see it? Have you got a torch, it’s so dark up there.”
Obligingly, Rufus pulled a torch out of his leather coat pocket. “That looks like…”
“Brother Bartolo!” Truella finished for him in a whisper. “Why is there an ancient tapestry of him, with all those frog faced nuns?”
Rufus felt dizzy and clutched the bannisters to steady himself. It was all coming back to him in a rush: images and sounds crowded his mind, malodorous wafts assailed his nostrils.
“Why, whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come, come and sit down in my room.”
“Don’t you remember?” Rufus asked, with a note of desperation in his voice. “You remember now, don’t you?”
“Come,” Truella insisted, tugging his arm. “Not here on the stairs.”
Rufus allowed Truella to lead him to her room, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He was so damn hot in this leather coat. The memories had first chilled him to the bone, and then a prickly sweat broke out.
Leading him into her room, Truella closed and locked the door behind them. “You look so hot,” she said softly and reached up to slide the heavy coat from his shoulders. They were close now, very close. “Take it off, darling, take it all off. We can talk later.”
Rufus didn’t wait to be asked twice. He slipped out of his clothes quickly as Truella’s dress fell to the floor. She bent down to remove her undergarments, and raised her head slowly. She gasped, not once but twice, the second time when her eyes were level with his manly chest. The Punic frog amulet! It was identical to the one she had found in her dig.
A terrible thought crossed her mind. Had he stolen it? Or were there two of them? Were they connected to the frog faced sisters? But she would think about all that later.
“Darling,” she breathed, “It’s been so long….”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Whether or not Truella’s suggestion proved to be true or not, and time would tell, she couldn’t help wondering about the letter Malove had sent to Jeezel. Was it genuine? Had she, Truella, also received one? Jeezel had asked if she’d checked her bags, and the truth was that she had not.
She made her way slowly up the grand staircase, holding the banister to steady herself as she looked at all the tapestries. How strange they were, a series of smaller cloths all of a similar theme, all of corpulent nuns in crimson red robes, not in itself a strange thing in an old convent, but they all had the faces of frogs.
“I see you’ve noticed them too, Truella,” Rufus said quietly, his hand reaching under his shirt for a moment.
“Thank goodness I was holding onto the bannisters, you startled me! I didn’t see you there. I could have fallen to my death on the tiled floor below, Rufus.”
“I’d have saved you. As I always have done,” He replied enigmatically. “Do you recognise them now?” he asked, glancing pointedly at the embroidered cloths.
Truella paused. What was going on here? Was he trying to distract her? “Rufus, we need to talk,” she said quietly. “I’m going to my room to look for, er, something. Come with me.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After everyone got the program for the six rituals, they dispersed. Jeezel observed groups reform and the whereabouts of people. Eris walked alone toward the dark corridors. Truella, Sandra and Sassafras went to the gardens. Rufus followed shortly after, his dark moody eyes showing intense reflections. Jeezel noticed that Bartolo from the convent had been observing the mortician and hurried to catch up with him. Mother Lorena stood as stern as ever in the center of the lobby. She kept cupping her hands around her ears to check if her earpieces were working. Which they weren’t from the irritated look on her face. Silas was in an animated discussion with Austreberthe and the remaining nuns were laughing heartily and running around as if they had overindulged in Sister Sassafras’ hallucinogenic mushroom canapés.
Jeezel decided to go back to the lounge and explore the antiques, maybe see if there were hidden passageways behind those tapestries. She found Garrett waiting for her in the corridor as if he knew what she intended to do. His deep blue eyes seemed to embrace her whole silhouette in a myriad of unspoken emotions, and when they settle on her emerald green eyes, a subtle grin showed his appreciation.
“Don’t look back,” he said, his voice a deep velvet baritone. “Old Silas and Austreberthe are looking at us with a very disapproving look.”
Jeezel couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “And what if they do? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Garrett’s grin widened. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne– a tantalizing mix of cedarwood and bergamot– mingling with the faint aroma of her own enchanting perfume.
“You intrigue me, Jeezel. More than the rituals, more than any relic or spell.”
Jeezel laughed heartily. Don’t they say keep your enemy close? I have questions for him. And I wouldn’t mind the company while I’m exploring the area? she thought.
“I was about to check for secret passages in the old lounge,” she said. “Would you join me?”
She let him take her hand and guide her toward the lounge. As they entered the heavy scent of aged wood and old books greeted them. Jeezel’s eyes darted to the tapestries lining the walls, each depicting scenes of ancient rituals and forgotten histories.
“Where do you think we should start?” Garrett asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the room.
Jeezel tilted her head, considering the possibilities. “That one,” she said, pointing to a particularly intricate tapestry depicting a moonlit garden. “It looks like it could hide something.” She reached out to the fabric and pulled it aside, revealing a wooden door. She tensed when she noticed lingering traces of cedarwood and bergamot. “Or someone,” she added, turning toward him. “You’ve been here recently, have you not?”
“Direct as ever. Very well. I’m here to protect and help you. You need to be careful with Silas. He has hidden motives.”
Jeezel narrowed her eyes. “And why should I trust you?”
Garrett pulled out his crimson handkerchief from his pocket, revealing a symbol embroidered in gold. Her eyes widened as identical to the one on the key Malové had given her.
“How did you get that?” she asked.
“Malové entrusted me with this,” Garret explained, “to show her chosen allies. I was told to seek you out and offer you my assistance. This symbol matches the one on your key, doesn’t it?”
Jeezel felt the weight of the key in her purse. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even to her friends. She felt even more confused than before. It was possible that Silas would try to divert her attention from him if he was against the merger. And what better way to do than alert her to unknown enemies. The fact that Garrett knew about the key just added a layer of complexity to the situation, but also a layer of excitement. She wondered what game was being played here, and who were the true players.
“Alright, Garrett,” she said, her voice steadying as she added, “I’ll hear you out. But if you’re lying, you’ll regret it.”
He nodded. “Faire enough. Silas isn’t just interested in the failure of the merger; he’s got his own agenda. Something to do with ancient punic artifacts and power that could rival even the Crimson Opus. And he’s not the only one. There are some ancient Punic families that are looking for the same things.”
Jeezel’s heart skipped a beat. If Silas was after the same kind of power, it could jeopardize everything—the merger, her mission, and possibly the balance of power in their world. Jeezle felt she was in way over her head. She had to breathe and connect to her inner Queen’s innate knowledge in order to slide into her role of leader.
“Then, I accept your assistance,” she conceded with a slight node. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you, Garrett. You’ll have to prove your loyalty.”
Garrett folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. For now, let’s just say our interests align. And if we work together, we might just come out of this with everything we need—and more.”
“Then show me where this hidden door lead!”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
At the end of the undertakers’ speech, conversations surged, drowning out the 14th-century organ music. Mother Lorena, who seemed to have taken the expression lines to a deeper level, gave imperative angry looks at her nuns who swiftly moved to meet with the witches.
“Hold your beath,” said Eris to Jeezel. “That Mr ash blond hair is coming for you.”
“Sh*t! I don’t have time for that,” said Jeezel looking at the striking young man. Meticulously styled to perfection and a penchant for tailored suits, she knew that kind of dandy, they were more difficult to get rid of than an army of orange slugs after a storm. She stole a champagne flute from Bartolo’s silver tray and flitted with a graceful nonchalance towards the buffet.
“Hi Jeezel! I’m sister Maria. You’re so beautiful,” said a joyful voice. “You want some canapés? I made them myself.”
Jeezel turned and almost moved her hand to her mouth. A young woman wearing the austere yet elegant black habit of the Roman Catholic Church was handing her a plate full of potted meat and pickles toasts. She had chameleon eyes busy looking everywhere except to what was in front of her. The white wimple covering her red hair seemed totally out of place and her face made the strangest contortions as she obviously was trying not to smile.
“Hi, I’m… Jeezel. But you already know that,” she said. The young woman nodded too earnestly and Jeezel suddenly became aware the nuns certainly had files about her and the other witches like the ones Truella gave them. She looked at the greasy canapés and refused politely. She just had time to notice a crimson silk handkerchief in a breast pocket and a flash of ash blond hair closing in.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I just remember, I have to go speak to my friend over there,” Jeezel said noticing Truella with a nun in a Buddhist outfit.
She left the redhead nun with a laugh that twinkled like stardust.
Truella’s friend didn’t seem too happy to have Jeezel barging in on their conversation. She said she was called sister Ananda. Her stained glass painted face didn’t seem to fit her saffron bhikkunis. And the oddest thing was she dominated the conversation, mostly about the diversity of mushrooms she’d been cultivating in the shade of old cellars buried deep in the cloister’s underground tunnels. Truella was sipping her soda, and nodding occasionally. But from what Jeezel could observe, the witch was busy keeping an eye on that tall, dark mortician who certainly looked suspicious.
Young sister Maria hadn’t given up. She joined the conversation with a tray full of what looked like green and pink samosas. Jeezel started to feel like a doe hunted by a pack of relentless beagles.
“You need to try those! Sister Ananda made them for you,” said the young Nun. Her colourful lips showed she had just tasted a few of them.
“At last,” said Garrett with a voice too deep for such a young handsome face, “you’re as difficult to catch as moonlight on the water. Elusive, mesmerizing, and always just out of reach. One moment you’re dazzling us all with your brillance, the next…”
“As usual, you speak too much, Garrett,” said Silas, the oldest of the morticians who just joined the group. The old man’s voice was commanding and his poise projecting an air of unwavering confidence. He had neatly trimmed grey hair and piercing hazel eyes that seem to see right through to the heart of any matter. “May we talk for a moment, dear Jeezel? I think we have some things to discuss.”
“Do we?” she asked, a shiver going up her spine. Her voice sounded uncertain and her heart started beating faster. Did he know about the sacred relic she was looking for? Was he going to ask her on a date too?
“The ritual, dear. The ritual we have to perform together tonight.”
“Oh! Yes, the ritual,” she sighed with relief.
Silas took her hand and they left the group just as Truella was asking a Garrett: “Won’t Rufus join us?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered coldly. But his eyes were full of passion and his heart full of envy as he watched Jeezel walk away with his mentor in a secluded lounge.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“It’s your fault I’m late, Sandra!” Sassafras hissed, adjusting her wimple and throwing a large crucifix around her neck. “You told me it was witches costumes, I had to run back upstairs to change.” Missing a step as she rushed down the stairs, Sassafras grabbed the bannister, managing to save herself from a possibly fatal tumble down to the tiled floor below.
“I thought it was! That’s why I’m late too. And anyway you look half witch and half nun in that outfit.” Sandra gripped Sassafras’s wrist. “Ok, calm down and deep breaths. Demure and collected, remember? We need to look serious and efficient.”
When they reached the door of the grand reception hall, they stood aside to allow Brother Bartolo to pass, on his way to the kitchen for more refreshments. He allowed himself a small smile, holding up an empty decanter. “Crimson Cordial, that’s what she told me to give them. It’s not every day she gives me the key for the cordials cabinet.”
“Not the Crimson Cordial!” the girls gasped in unison. They looked at each other, perplexed. “What is she playing at, Brother?”
“That’s not all,” whispered Brother Bartolo, leaning closer to Sandra, “She’s re animated the Sisters of the Sacred Sepulchre from the crypt. I’ve seen them wandering around in the cellars, waiting for orders.”
Sandra and Sassafras looked at each other in alarm. “This is serious.”
“But is it to assist the merger or derail it?”
“Who only knows what goes on behind that prune faced scowl. And why has she invited a team of morticians, eh? Ask yourself that! Morticians!” Sandra said.
“This is too dark for me, I’m off. Tell them I’ve been taken ill, I’m going for a walk in the woods.”
Brother Bartolo barred her way. “Oh no you’re not. You won’t get away with that this time,” he said grimly. “This is too dark for those petty tricks. And you may be needed,” he added cryptically. “All hands on deck, and as many fingers as you like.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships!” Malove’s voice had reached fever pitch. She had expanded her map, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. Reactions in the audience varied, but there was an overwhelming unspoken consensus of a growing rebellion towards the unsettling increase in Malove’s dictatorial ways.
Perhaps nobody will ever know for sure whose private spell did the trick, or whether it was the combined effort that brought about such an unexpected chain of events. Maybe it was none of those things, and just the way things worked out.
The vast world that Malove had cried out heard her call and sucked her forthwith into the steamy depths of a hitherto unknown equatorial location in search of potential allies. An unexpected invitation from a long lost cousin, it was said, although nobody in the coven knew for sure. There was more lively interest in the coven and more communication between the witches during those days when Malove disappeared without trace than ever before.
On the twelfth day after her disappearance, the cryptic messages started arriving. On the 15th day, experts were examining the selfies for signs of tampering and pronouncing them to be be true images.
It wasn’t easy to imagine Malove swooning in her tropical lovers arms under parrot filled jungle trees, sheathed in gauzy crumpled linen and with a vapid expression of a Cartland character, but the photos kept coming.
It seemed too bizarre, too good to be true, when Malove sent a voice message in her unmistakable voice, but with an uncharacteristic lazy, sultry tone.
“Darlings, you won’t beleive it. I’ve fallen in love! I’m taking an indefinite leave of absence.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Once again, the Quadrivium headquarters buzzed with an undercurrent of tension and anticipation. Malové stood at the helm, her gaze as steely and unwavering as ever. The coven’s regular meetings had taken on a new urgency in the face of mounting market pressures and the ever-accelerating pace of competition.
The witches assembled in the grand hall, each carrying the weight of their individual concerns and collective anxieties. A large screen was projecting the agenda in flashy neon colours with a glamourous photo of their leader. The event was broadcast across many locations, not all witches able to join physically as the ongoing Worldwide Roman Games preparation and the 333th celebration of the Treaty of Limerick ending the Williamite War, had made the city impenetrable due to the convergence of world leaders.
Not only for those present, all of them seated in-person, or remotely connected had felt the tremors of change, the subtle yet insistent push towards transformation. Yet despite their best efforts, a cohesive vision for the coven’s future remained elusive.
As the last witch took her seat and the various technical glitches got sorted, Malové stepped forward, her presence commanding immediate silence. With a flick of her wrist, a spectral map materialized before them, shimmering with points of light that represented their past achievements and future challenges.
“Listen well,” Malové began, her voice echoing through the hall with the gravity of an ancient spell. “We stand at a crossroads, a juncture where our past accomplishments meet the demands of an unforgiving future. Our strength has always been in our unity and our mastery of the arcane, but now, we must also master the art of transformation.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. The witches leaned forward, their eyes locked onto their formidable leader.
“Transformation,” she continued, “is not merely a matter of adapting to external pressures. It requires a boldness of spirit and a willingness to steer the deepest currents of our inner selves. It demands that we break free from the confines of tradition without losing our core essence.”
Malové waved her hand, and the map shifted to reveal a complex network of interconnected pathways. “Our path forward will not be linear. It will be a labyrinth, requiring both cunning and courage. But fear not, for I have charted a course that will lead us through.”
She pointed to three glowing nodes on the map. “First, we shall innovate. Our magical incense blends have always been our hallmark, but we must go beyond. We will delve into new realms of magic, combining our ancient practices with cutting-edge techniques. Each of you will be tasked with researching and developing a new blend that can transform not just our coven, but the world.”
The witches exchanged glances, a mixture of excitement and apprehension flickering in their eyes.
“Second,” Malové continued, “we must strengthen our alliances. The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships with other covens, magical beings, and even those who walk the line between the mundane and the mystical. Together, we will create a network of power and influence that none can rival.”
The map expanded, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. The witches nodded, recognizing the necessity of this bold move.
“Lastly,” Malové said, her voice softening yet losing none of its intensity, “we must look within. Inner transformation is the crucible in which true power is forged. Each of you will undergo a rigorous process of self-examination and growth. You will face your fears, confront your weaknesses, and emerge stronger and more resilient. Only then can we hope to lead others through their own transformations.”
She paused, meeting the eyes of each witch in turn. “I will be with you every step of the way. My role is not just to lead, but to guide and support you. We will hold workshops, retreats, and one-on-one sessions to ensure that every member of the Quadrivium is prepared for the journey ahead.”
Truella, who had tuned in remotely, winced softly behind her screen – she quickly checked. Phew, she had been on mute the whole time.
Malové’s voice grew softer still, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of an ancient prophecy. “We are the Quadrivium. We are woven together by threads of magic and destiny. Our future is not written in stone, but in the stars. Together, we will reach for those stars and make them our own.”
The hall was silent, the witches absorbing the magnitude of Malové’s words. Slowly, a sense of resolve began to build, a collective determination to embrace the path laid out before them.
As the meeting drew to a close, Malové turned back to the spectral map, her eyes reflecting the myriad possibilities that lay ahead. “Remember this day, for it marks the beginning of our grand transformation. We will not be merely a coven. We will be a force of nature, a symphony of magic that weaves through time and space.”
With a final wave of her hand, the map vanished, leaving only the echoes of her words and the indomitable spirit of the Quadrivium, and throngs of witches left more confused as they exited the halls in hushed tones.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Sure I’ll help you, said Frella and Herma smiled gratefully.
“You’re a dear.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a postcard and waved it at Frella. “It’s my eyes, I can’t make it out, all scrawled it is.”
Frella reached for the card. On the front was a silhouette drawing of a blackbird on a tree branch. She turned the card over and studied it closely. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said at last. “I think it is written in code.” She held the card to her nose and a prickly, spicy smell just about overpowered her. It was achingly sad and sweet and nostalgic and a great lump formed in her chest.
Herma leaned over and patted her knee gently. “What is it?”
Frella gave herself a little shake. “Camphor,” she said at last. “Is there a camphor chest somewhere? I think it’s the key to this.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it. It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.
Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.
To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:
Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.
Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.
Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.
Who will rise to the occasion?
Who indeed? I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?
Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.
Consider the following:
Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.
Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Finland had just boasted its position as the happiest country on Earth in the afternoon news, and that had left Eris and Thorsten wondering about all that was freely available to them and often overlooked. Closeness to nature and a well-balanced work-life ratio, such among those things.
Not one to reel in contentment, Eris was finding herself entangled in the whimsical dance of procrastination, much to the chagrin of her bossy headwitch mentor, Malové. Her boyfriend, Thorsten, her unwavering support, watched with a fond smile as Eris meandered through her myriad interests.
As part of his latest trials of biohacking experiments, he’d chosen to undergo the Ramadan fast, and often found himself delirious from hunger by day’s end.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Eris lounged in their cozy cabin, her mind swirling with thoughts of exploration. Thorsten interrupted her reverie with his latest discovery.
“Look ‘ris,” he called her over his last discovery “they say: Wear blue light blocking glasses at night: And made your sleep a means for rest | Quran 78:9. Blue light blocking glasses help mitigate the damage that post-Maghrib light exposure causes. This is a critical circadian rhythm hack.” — Should I buy some?”
“Sure, Love.” Paying soft attention, Eris found herself lost in a whirlwind of distractions—a stray cat seeking shelter from the sudden March rains, a mysterious potion recipe hidden in the depths of her bookshelf, and the ever-present allure of social media, beckoning her with its siren song of endless scrolls and likes.
As dusk fell, a sliver of moonlight signaled the end of the day’s fast for Thorsten. It was the moment that their adventurous friend Jorid chose to knock at the door of their cottage, with a gleam of wanderlust in his eyes. He yearned to explore the far reaches of the Northern Lights, his restless spirit only equal to his insatiable curiosity, and probably second only to his ravenous hunger, eagerly awaiting one of those magicked dinners that Eris had the secret to manifest at a moment’s notice.
“Sushi sandwiches everyone?” she asked distractedly.
“With a serving of spicy kelp, yes please!” Jorid answered.
As Eris came back with the food, still inwardly grappling with the enigma of procrastination, a familiar voice echoed in her mind —Elias, her digital friend, offering sage advice from the depths of her consciousness.
“Ah, my dear Eris,” Elias chimed in, his words a harmonious blend of wisdom and whimsy. “Let us embark on a playful exploration of this delightful conundrum you find yourself within. Procrastination, you see, is not an adversary to be conquered, but rather a messenger, guiding you toward a particular direction of energy.”
Elias’s guidance resonated deeply with Eris, offering a beacon of clarity amidst the fog of indecision. “You are experiencing a diversity of interests, much like a child in a room filled with toys,” he continued. “Each one more enticing than the last. And yet, the child does not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration of each one in turn. This is the key, Eris, exploration without the burden of obligation.”
Eris nodded in agreement, her gaze flickering to Thorsten, whose quiet support and solid appetite punctuated with Jorid’s laughter served as a steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.
Elias was continuing to deliver this message in an instant communication she would need time to explore and absorb. “Firstly, prioritize your interests. Recognize that not all desires must be pursued simultaneously. Allow yourself to be drawn naturally to whichever interest is speaking most loudly to you in the moment. Immerse yourself in that experience fully, without the shadow of guilt for not attending to the others.”
“Secondly, address the belief that you must ‘get it all done.’ This is a fallacy, a trick of cultural time that seeks to impose upon you an artificial urgency. Instead, align with natural time, allowing each interest to unfold in its own rhythm and space.”
“Thirdly, consider the concept of ‘productive procrastination.’ When you delay one action, you are often engaging in another, perhaps without recognizing its value. Allow yourself to appreciate the activities you are drawn to during these periods of procrastination. They may hold insights into your preferences or be offering you necessary respite.”
“Lastly, engage in what I have referred to as a ‘blueprint action.’ Identify one action that aligns with your passion and commitment, and allow yourself to execute this action regularly. In doing so, you create a foundation, an anchor, from which the diversity of your interests can flow more freely, without the sense of being adrift in a sea of potential.”
“And remember, Eris,” Elias added, his voice gentle yet firm, “you are not here to complete a list but to revel in the joy of discovery and creation. Embrace your multitude of interests as a reflection of the richness of your essence, and allow yourself to dance with them in the timing that feels most harmonious.”
As the Northern Lights cast their ethereal glow upon the Finnish landscape, illuminating the forest around them, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over her—a reminder that the journey, with all its twists and turns, had true magic revealed at every turn and glances in the midst of a friendly evening shared meal.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It may surprise you, dear reader, to hear the story of Truella and Frella’s childhood at a Derbyshire mill in the early 1800s. But! I hear you say, how can this be? Read on, dear reader, read on, and all will be revealed.
Tilly, daughter of Everard Mucklewaite, miller of Brightwater Mill, was the youngest of 17 children. Her older siblings had already married and left home when she was growing up, and her parents were elderly. She was somewhat spoiled and allowed a free rein, which was unusual for the times, as her parents had long since satisfied the requirements for healthy sons to take over the mill, and well married daughters. She was a lively inquisitive child with a great love of the outdoors and spent her childhood days wandering around the woods and the fields and playing on the banks of the river. She had a great many imaginary friends and could hear the trees whisper to her, in particular the old weeping willow by the mill pond which she would sit under for hours, deep in conversation with the tree.
Tilly didn’t have any friends of her own age, but as she had never known human child friends, she didn’t feel the loss of it. Her older sisters used to talk among themselves though, saying she needed to play with other children or she’d never grow up and get out of her peculiar ways. Between themselves (for the parents were unconcerned) they sent a letter to an aunt who’d married an Irishman and moved with him to Limerick, asked them to send over a small girl child if they had one spare. As everyone knew, there were always spare girls that parents were happy to get rid of, if at all possible, and by return post came the letter announcing the soon arrival of Flora, who was a similar age to Tilly.
It was a long strange journey for little Flora, and she arrived at her new home shy and bewildered. The kitchen maid, Lucy, did her best to make her feel comfortable. Tilly ignored her at first, and Everard and his wife Constance were as usual preoccupied with their own age related ailments and increasing senility.
One bright spring day, Lucy noticed Flora gazing wistfully towards the millpond, where Tilly was sitting on the grass underneath the willow tree.
“Go on, child, go and sit with Tilly, she don’t bite, just go and sit awhile by her,” Lucy said, giving Flora a gentle push. “Here, take this,” she added, handing her two pieces of plum cake wrapped in a blue cloth.
Flora did as she was bid, and slowly approached the shade of the old willow. As soon as she reached the dangling branches, the tree whispered a welcome to her. She smiled, and Tilly smiled too, pleased and surprised that the willow has spoken to the shy new girl.
“Can you hear willow too?” Tilly asked, looking greatly pleased. She patted the grass beside her and invited Flora to sit. Gratefully, and with a welcome sigh, Flora joined her.
Tilly and Flora became inseperable friends over the next months and years, and it was a joy for Tilly to introduce Flora to all the other trees and creatures in their surroundings. They were like two peas in a pod.
Over the years, the willow tree shared it’s secrets with them both.
One summer day, at the suggestion of the willow tree, Tilly and Flora secretly dug a hole, hidden from prying eyes by the long curtain of hanging branches. They found, among other objects which they kept carefully in an old trunk in the attic, an old book, a grimoire, although they didn’t know it was called a grimoire at the time. In fact, they were unable to read it, as girls were seldom taught to read in those days. They secreted the old tome in the trunk in the attic with the other things they’d found.
Eventually the day came when Tilly and Flora were found husbands and had to leave the mill for their new lives. The trunk with its mysterious contents remained in the dusty attic, and was not seen again until almost 200 years later, when Truella’s parents bought the old mill to renovate it into holiday apartments. Truella took the trunk for safekeeping.
When she eventually opened it to explore what it contained, it all came flooding back to her, her past life as Tilly the millers daughter, and her friend Flora ~ Flora she knew was Frigella. No wonder Frella had seemed so familiar!
